Weak
by 7Minutes
Summary: Mark starts to realize that Roger's become really good at getting what he wants


Disclaimer: Property of the late Jonathan Larson.

I hear the door slam downstairs and groan. Roger's on his way up. Again. I turn the page of my book idly, counting down in my head.  
  
_5, 4, 3, 2-_  
  
Roger bursts through my door angrily, guitar case in hand. To prove his point, he slams my door behind him, too. I finally look up at him, but he's not facing me. He pushes his hair out of his face and drops the guitar case onto the floor next to him.  
  
"Fight with Mimi?" I venture, pretending the whole fucking building couldn't hear his minor hissy fit. He whirls on me.  
  
"She's unbelievable," he growls in response, flopping next me on the ratty couch. I shift over slightly and lay my book on the coffee table. This is going to take a while.  
  
"What'd she do this time?"  
  
"She just got home."  
  
"That bitch," I deadpan, which only earns me a reproachful glare. So much for humor. I try again.  
  
"Come on, Rog. Why are you so upset? You know how late she works."  
  
"She said she was getting out earlier tonight - like, 12:30 or something."  
  
I glance at my watch. Almost 2:30. That explains some of it. I really hope he hasn't spent the last two hours sitting in front of the door.  
  
"She was probably out fucking Benny," he mutters, and snorts. "Again."  
  
Or shooting up, I counter silently, but I keep it to myself, as I don't want to spend the next few months with my jaw wired shut.  
  
We sit in silence, me watching him, him staring at the floor, the wall, the coffee table. He glances at me and opens his mouth, but shuts it again. I raise my eyebrows at this, but still remain silent, afraid of setting him off. He rests his elbows on his knees and drops his head into his hands.  
  
I hate seeing him like this. He and Mimi fight over stupid shit like this all the time. I know how it affects him, even though he's just as much at fault as she is. He acts like an asshole about it, true, but he takes it to heart all the same.  
  
"It'll blow over, Rog," I assure him, putting a hand on his back. "You two will work it out, you always do."  
  
"I don't wanna work it out," he mutters into his palms.  
  
"You only say that because you're pissed."  
  
Roger doesn't move, and neither do I. I care about him, maybe more than I should, but whatever else I feel for him, I know he can be irrational & more than a little hard to deal with.  
  
He finally lifts his head and locks eyes with mine, and for a moment I want nothing more than to help him out of this funk.  
  
I guess it's not that much of a surprise when he leans forward and kisses me. It's even less of a surprise when I start to kiss him back.  
  
For a second, everything stops, and the only thing I am aware of is Roger's lips pressed against mine. I allow myself to enjoy it, because really, this is what I wanted, and now I'm finally getting it.  
  
But then reality slams into me hard, and I realize what I'm doing. This isn't how I want it to be. If we're going to do this, I'd rather he be kissing me because he wants me as much as I want him. Tonight, I know he's only looking for an outlet, and he knew he could come to me. Startled, I break the contact, hurtling off the couch as though I've been shocked. Knitting his brows, Roger stands as well.  
  
"Mark," he begins, but I'm already crossing the room, desperate to put some distance between us. I shake my head, drawing in a breath. I'm not doing this. I'm not giving in to him. Not like this. In any other situation, I'd be more than willing to go along with whatever he wanted, but this...this isn't fair. It's not fair of him to take advantage of my feelings for him, because he knows I would give in. But I'll be damned if I do tonight.  
  
He's still walking toward me, but I stop him by placing a hand on his shoulder, keeping him literally at an arm's length. His eyes bore into mine, and I feel my resolve beginning to crack. He covers my hand with his and takes another step forward, moving so that my arm is encasing his shoulders. In one decisive moment, I realize I'm going to give in to him, and then there's no turning back.  
  
I'm going to hate myself in the morning.  
  
He leans in for another kiss, and it seems as though my body reacts of its own accord as I tip my head back to meet his lips again. With that kiss I relinquish control, and he knows it. He deepens the kiss, and I part my lips to allow his tongue to glide through.  
  
He seems rushed now, backing me up against the wall without breaking the contact. His hands are roaming all over my body, the feeling both familiar and foreign. He bites down on my lip, not hard enough to break skin but enough to make me cry out a little. Before I can protest further, he's pulling my shirt over my head, knocking my glasses off in the process. I hear myself mumble something about a condom, and he pauses long enough to produce one from his pocket.  
  
He knew exactly what he wanted in coming up here. It's really quite cruel when you stop to think about it. I wonder if he actually feels anything for me, or if I'm just the easiest solution for the night. But I can't think about it anymore, because now he's tugging me toward the bedroom, laying kisses in my lips, my face, my neck. The door clicks shut behind us.  
  
Fuck it. I hate myself tonight.


End file.
